


Death Of The Author

by happygolovely



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ben Mckenzie If You're Reading This I Am So Sorry, Canon-Typical Violence, Ed Realizes He's Fictional And He's Not Happy About It, Experimental Style, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Knifeplay, Literary References & Allusions, M/M, Magical Realism, Mental Health Issues, Meta, Reality Bending, Sharing a Bed, Slow Build, Temporary Character Death, Torture, Unreliable Narrator, Writing Exercise, nygmobblepot week
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-19
Updated: 2018-03-19
Packaged: 2019-04-04 15:58:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14023686
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/happygolovely/pseuds/happygolovely
Summary: Edward Nygma was never intended to be anything more than a secondary character.The Riddler demands otherwise.





	Death Of The Author

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Tiếng Việt available: [Death Of The Author (Vietnamese Translation) – Cái Chết Của Văn Hào](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15250086) by [Nfowleri](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nfowleri/pseuds/Nfowleri)



_Nygma_ _paced_ _in_ _a_ _perfect_ _figure_ _eight_. _An_ _infinity_ _symbol_. _He_ _did_ _everything_ _with_ _the_ _utmost_ _precision_ , _even_ _his unconscious movements carefully measured out. Like a finely wound machine-_

 

No, no no that’s not right at all.

Backspace. Backspace.

 

Ed stops moving, frozen in time. Foot just about to hit the ground while his indecisive writer dithers.

 

Jim Gordon chews on his pen, ink in his mouth. His graphic novels have been selling well but he’s hit a wall. A green wall. This newest character doesn’t listen to him, too independently minded. Every time he tries to make him zig, he zags. Edward Nygma was never intended to be anything more than a secondary character.

 

The Riddler demands otherwise.

 

Madman. Serial killer. The Terror of Gotham City. Right now he was nothing more than a wallflower at the GCPD but he had potential.

 

If only Jim could get him to speak. Dialogue has never been his strong suit, he’s a man of action sequences. The proverbial light bulb went off and he moved to the next scene.

 

_There’s no accounting for taste he thinks, as he looks over the tattered corpse. He slashes through, tearing it to shreds. Tossed the bloody remains in the bin and looked to his next victim._

 

_Such a pathetic thing. It would be a mercy killing really._

 

_Took up his instrument and made his first incision._

 

The buzzer sounds and Jim put down his pen, wiping red ink off his hands.

 

“Come in.”  He says, preoccupied with getting a spot off his cuff.

 

A scruffy Irishman with more scotch in his bloodstream than blood itself. He plops down on the couch. “How’s the story, Shakespeare?”

 

“I like to think of myself as more of a Fitzge- you know what never mind.”

 

Jim sighs and sits next to Harvey who hands him a flask, he takes a swig.

 

“You never did answer my question, oh mighty and noble author on high. Oh man, are you actually high - this would explain so much.”

 

Jim groans and thunks his head against the couch cushion. “I am not high. I promise.”

 

Harvey pulls out his cell phone and starts to dial a number. “Would you like to be? I know a guy in lockup, owes me a favor.”

 

“I still can’t believe they let you be a police officer.”

 

Harvey shrugs. “It’s one of those universal mysteries like why can’t you lick your elbow or how come bananas are like that.” Finishes dialing the number. “I’m getting Chinese, you probably haven’t eaten in like a week.”

 

He’s not wrong. Jim falls down the rabbit’s hole and forgets how to function as a human being. He does this on a semi-regular basis especially when he’s writing.

 

If it wasn’t for Harvey he probably wouldn’t be alive.

 

Two white boxes and a pile of wontons later, Jim is complaining about his characters. Harvey nods sympathetically and drinks root beer. “So you’re telling me this Nashton guy-”

 

“Nygma. He made me change it. More mysterious.”

 

“Fourth walls, buddy. Get some. Anyway, so you can’t write him cause he’s smarter than you -”

 

“I can’t write him because he’s cruel. Cruel beyond anything I could possibly imagine. He’s slippery and sly and every time I think I got a hold of him he turns to smoke in my hands.”

 

“Nail his skinny ass to the wall. Character is tested through adversity. Read that in a gas station bathroom.”

 

“You always know the right thing to say.”

 

“No problem, pal. Worst comes to worse - introduce him to the bird. Trial by fire.”

 

‘I don’t know if I could sacrifice anyone to Cobblepot. He’s pretty ruthless.”

 

Harvey steals a wonton off his plate. “So’s your riddle boy. Two peas in a fucked up pod.”

 

Jim laughs. It's a fair description. There are so many parallels between them, it will be interesting to see how those layers overlap.

 

Takes a pen out from behind his ear and steals a napkin off of Harvey. Its slightly grease stained but that's alright. Gotta accept the muses you can get.

 

_He stood at the side of a staircase looking down on everyone as usual. One stood out from the rest. Brighter, clearer. Crystallized. On the other side of the stairs. Ed matched him step for step, circled around him. Centripetal motion._

 

_“You’re standing too close.”_

 

_Not close enough. He stepped into his space, sniffed his hair._

 

_“Has anyone ever told you, you smell like rainwater?”_

 

_Oswald punches him in the face._

 

_Ed stumbles back, clutching his nose. Blood on his hand. “I think - I think you broke it.”_

 

_Oswald casually adjusts his glove. “Good. That’ll keep you from sticking it where it doesn’t belong, Mister - whatever you call yourself.”_

 

_“Nygma. Edward.” He holds out his hand to shake, covered in blood. Oswald looks at it disdainfully. Takes out a handkerchief and tucks it into his lab coat pocket._

 

_“Here. You’re making a mess of yourself.”_

 

_“I believe that was your doing.” Ed grins and takes the handkerchief out of his pocket. White, with a purple umbrella embroidered on the corner. “Thank you for this.”_

 

_Oswald tilts his head consideringly. “Are you thanking me for hurting you?“_

 

_“For caring afterwards. I assumed that was your form of an apology. People don’t usually apologize to me.”_

 

_Something in Oswald seems to soften, a hardness behind the eyes vanishes. “Give me that.”  He takes the handkerchief out of his hands and leans up, wiping the blood off his face and pressing the fabric to stop the swelling._

 

_“For future reference, your standard of human decency shouldn’t be ‘not as awful as they could have been.’”_

 

_“Noted. I suppose that means I don’t forgive you.” Oswald pinches Ed’s nose, he yelps._

 

_“You can’t forgive me for something I don’t regret. You were invasive and irritating, you got what you deserve.” Oswald smiles. “Although some would say much the same about me.”_

 

_“We started this all wrong. Try again?”_

 

And try they did. A hundred times, a thousand. Scrunched up paper balls across Jim’s desk, sketches abandoned before they could come together.

 

They meet in the air, in the sea. A hundred lifetimes that almost were. Eventually, they settle back where they started. A staircase, a circle complete.

 

Jim sets down his pen.

 

A knock at the door, a note slid through the cracks.

 

Picks up the black envelope, takes out the white paper. Green ink, sloping lines.

 

_The Definition Of Insanity:_

_Doing The Same Thing/Over and Over and Over/Leave Me Be_

 

Jim frowns and throws the paper in the waste bin. He has more important things to worry about than strange letters.

 

The story has barely begun.

 

* * *

 

Repetition is tiresome, never do it again. Repetition is tiresome, never do it again. Ed settles into a routine. Wakes up every morning at five, gets ready for work.

 

Snags something to eat from the fridge (cold noodles, microwave). One day he got a craving, went for something different. He came to work and the entire station was on fire. Deviation from the norm is not advisable. He does it anyway.

 

Nothing monumental. Misplaced documents, errors in reports. Paperclip trail to find his way home. He remembers everything. Calculates probability and finds himself on the losing end.

 

Takes Miss Kringle out of town, buys her an express ticket. She’s back again the next morning. Always there until she isn’t.

 

He has killed her thirty-seven times now. Strangulation. He stops crying after the fourth. Cultivates a callus. Exposure therapy. Draining pus, festering wound.

 

An infection that never heals. Snaps her neck and feels his own break.

 

The voice keeps coming back.

 

The Narrator.

 

_killer killer killer if you loved her so much why is she dead everything you touch turns to ash_

_cut off your hands so they can’t hurt anyone else stop the virus before it spreads_

 

Cocaine. Pills. Injections. It doesn’t matter what. Drugs are just another habit he can’t break.

Anything to drown out the screams inside him.

 

He sneaks into Gotham University and into the lecture hall. Sits in the back and closes his eyes. Narrative conventions, stylistic choices.

 

His life: a series of unfortunate events outside of his control.

 

Raises his hand. The literature professor calls on him.

 

“How do you determine what genre you are living in?” As if there was ever any doubt. Tragedy.

 

Professor Fox smiles. “We are all the masters of our own fate. We chose the lives we wish to lead.”

 

Scowls and sweeps his papers off his desk, into his briefcase. “Trite and useless, thanks ever so much for that.”

 

Fox stops him just as he’s walking out. “You’re not one of my students.”

 

Rolls his eyes. “I’m well aware, now if you will excuse me I have better things to d-”

 

He hands him a sheet. “My office hours are on the back along with the syllabus. If you’re going to drop by at least familiarize yourself with the material.”

 

Returns on a Tuesday and sits down without ceremony on top of the desk. Dumps textbooks on to the floor. “These are by far the worst things I have ever read.”

 

Fox pushes him off the desk. “You’re my 2 o’clock, aren’t you?”

 

Ed sits down in a proper chair, improperly. Legs stretched over the side. Every piece of furniture rendered into a dollhouse by virtue of his ridiculous proportions.

 

“I am also your three o'clock. Four as well.” He spreads worksheets out on his desk on top of the paper Fox is grading. “Now to the question of choice.”

 

“Protagonists often like to believe themselves beyond consequence, beyond moral responsibility. This is not the case. You still retain agency and thus the axis of responsibility is entirely on your shoulders.” Fox leans back in his chair. “Though I suppose that’s not what you wanted to hear. I should have indulged your delusion.”

 

“I’m not delusional. The voice I am hearing is real.”

 

Fox pulls out a business card. “I believe you are hearing things and I believe that you believe them. This is the number for a friend of mine, she comes highly recommen-”

 

“I’d sooner check myself into Arkham. I’m right about this, right about all of it.” He stood up. “I’ll prove it to you.”

 

He sets up video cameras when the Narrator’s not looking. Films himself killing her a couple times just to be sure. The Narrator stops him in the middle once and he sees himself frozen on screen as The Narrator re arranges the room and rewinds them.

 

He leaves the tapes in Fox’s office. He is arrested the next day.

Foxy’s got a conscience, unlike some people.

 

Wakes up in his own apartment and goes to his office.

 

“How’s that for a circular narrative structure?”

 

Fox looks at him and sets down his paper.

 

“Tell me more about this voice of yours.”

 

The rough drafts and revisions. The cycle of violence inescapable. A puppet loosely strung, marionette dragged across the floor. Strings stretching up into the sky.

 

“Does she feel any pain? When you kill her.”

 

“I used to believe so.”

 

“And now?”

 

“She’s a plot device. She can’t feel anything.”

 

“Good. She’s not suffering then.” Fox rolls a chalkboard out of the corner. “I will not be an accessory after the fact.”

 

They plot out the storyboards, go over the circumstances. Debate literary conventions. Suspense, horror, detective. There’s any number of things it could be.

 

Come back the next day, do it all over. Over and over.

 

Fox dusts chalk off his blazer. “It’s time to face facts, Mister Nygma. Your life is a comic.”

 

“I fail to see anything comedic about this situation.”  

 

Hands him a freshly printed comic book. “I found your author. James T. Gordon.”

 

Rips the plastic off the cover and dives in. “Is that really what my hair looks like from the back?”

 

Fox snatches the comic out of his hand. “No spoilers. I’m afraid you won’t like the main character very much. He’s kind of a pain.”

 

Ed laughs hysterically until it turns into a sob, curls up on the floor. “So this is my origin story. At least tell me I’m the comedic relief.”

 

Fox helps him up to his feet, fixes them both a cup of tea. Hands it to him along with a silver spoon.

 

“You have your moments. Now there’s something else we need to discuss - you mentioned a man. Not The Voice, the other one.”

 

“Oswald, yes. We keep running into each other.” Ed smiles. ‘Sometimes literally.” Last time, he had been robbing a bank. Ed, hot on his trail, chasing him down an alley. Cornered him.

 

Oswald pressed a gun to his head and a kiss to his cheek. He can still feel it, purple bruise against his skin. Pinches his cheek so the color lasts. Miss Kringle in the next room rotting and raw.

Her blood comes out translucent. All her colors run dry long ago.

 

“Do you think he’s like you, ink instead of blood and all that?”

 

“He’s different than the rest. Everyone else is sort of hazy watercolors. He’s bright, brighter than anything I’ve ever seen.”

 

“You should talk to him. Compare color commentary.” Fox eats a ginger biscuit. “Who knows you might even be able to help each other.”  

 

“If he’s anything like me, he’s beyond saving.” Fox pushes the plate closer to him.

 

“If he’s like you then he’s lost. Needs a friend.”

 

Ed looks up at him. “Are we friends, Foxy?”

 

“My friends call me Lucius.”

 

Ed smiles. Eats his biscuit, drinks his tea.

 

A friend.

 

The truth is stranger than fiction.

 

* * *

 

100 Easy Ways To Succumb To Your Inner Darkness  
Kill Everyone: A Success Story

Monologues And Other Villainous Devices Third Edition

 

Ed leaves the bookstore delighted and dastardly. He feels invigorated. Finally, he knows what he wants to be when he grows up.

 

Buries her in the woods, makes a production out of it. Kristen was a nice girl, she deserves a proper send off. She deserves a lot more than he can give her, restrictions of genre being what they are. He hopes she gets a soft epilogue wherever she’s going.

 

He’s interrupted in the middle of his ceremony. Doesn’t anyone respect a ritual anymore? Follows the trail of blood out to the cabin.

 

Oswald opens the door, leaning on a shotgun. Collapses to the forest floor. Leaves in his hair, dirt smeared against his cheek.

Ed throws down his shovel and rushes to his side. Picks him up off the ground in a bridal carry. “Fancy seeing you here, of all places.”

 

Oswald says nothing. Unconscious people aren't the best conversationalists. That’s alright, Ed has plenty of things to say. He can carry the man and the bulk of the text as well.

 

He has to stop halfway and shift. Carries him on his back instead. Arms wrapped his neck, feet dragging on the sides. Labored breath in his ear.

 

Catches him up to speed on all the new and exciting things that are happening in his life. Oswald’s head thumps against his shoulder and Ed pretends its an approving nod.

 

He expected him to be much heavier. Weights around his ankles. Instead, there’s a reassuring steadiness to him. Something solid to cling to. Port in a storm.

 

He’s not light no, he’s no bird with bones made of air. Yet Ed feels light expanding within himself as he carries him back to the car. A prism refracting.

 

Lies him down gently in the back seat and wipes the dirt off his face.

 

He quickly finishes burying the rest and takes him home.

 

It will be a struggle getting him up the stairs without anyone noticing. Ed doesn’t bother. Hides him under a tarp. Stops at a gas station. Picks up some booze. Dabs it across Oswald’s mouth and around his neck. Leans in and smells him. Intoxicating.

 

When he carries him into the building, everyone sees a nice man helping his drunk friend home. Such a good sort, that Nygma.

 

Oswald wakes up to green, green, green. Upheaves the contents of his stomach into a wastepaper basket as Ed rubs circles on his back.

 

“There, there now let it out - it's going to be alright.”

 

He’s looking a little green around the gills, Ed fetches medication and a glass of water. Oswald refuses the pills and pushes the water to the floor.

 

Ed tries to give him the medication by hand and Oswald bites him.

 

That probably shouldn’t feel as good as it does.

 

“DON’T TOUCH ME.”

 

“Yes, yes of course sir. You have nothing to fear here.” Ed swallows the pills to demonstrate, slides them into his palm covertly. “I’m not going to hurt you. I’m not going to let anyone hurt you ever again.”

 

Oswald is a difficult patient. That’s alright. Ed can be patient. He’s worth the trouble. Still bright, so very very bright. In sickness, in health. He shines. A purple glow surrounding him, an aura. No one else has color like that.

 

Ed’s own shade of green magnified. He brings it out in him. Distilled to his purest form.

 

“Now, I can understand your reluctance but I must assure you no harm wi-”

 

Oswald stumbles up from the bed, far too quickly. Ed grabs a syringe and jabs it into his neck.

 

“Technically this doesn’t violate the terms of our verbal agreement.” Ed pulls the syringe out with a flourish and waves his hands. “After all, I’m not touching you.”

 

Oswald falls back down into the bed. Ed tucks the sheets around him till he looks comfortable.

Such a natural fit: Oswald and Ed’s bed. He would hate to come between them.

 

He takes a blanket off the couch and a pillow off the bed, careful not to disturb his rest.

 

Builds a nest on the floor by his feet.  

 

They have a long night ahead of them.

 

* * *

 

 

Oswald Cobblepot has died hundreds of times. Thousands. He keeps coming back. Throw him in a river, he does not drown. Shoot him through the heart, he takes his heart out of his chest. Replaces it with iron, steel, ice. It’s not real, none of it. Stopped caring long ago.

 

Cuts up his wrist and the blood drips down into the gutter, the veins of the city. He feeds Gotham her pound of flesh. She’s a cruel mistress. He wouldn’t have her any other way.  

 

Till the city takes his mother.

Till he wakes up alone.  

 

Not alone enough. A green light pulsing. He stands out on the docks and reaches for it. Never close enough to touch. Always at the other end of the horizon.  

 

The man himself is strange. Talks entirely too much, too fast. Staccato. A whirling, worrisome way about him. He spins on his heels, on his words. Waves them around the air and he can almost see them pop like bubbles. Rinse his mouth out with soap. Anything to feel clean.  

 

Oswald hasn’t felt clean in a very long time. He takes baths frequently, scrubs his skin raw til the water turns lavender. The dirt beneath his fingernails never really goes away. He takes to wearing gloves. The illusion of grandeur nearly just as good.

 

Edward Nygma shatters all his illusions and rebuilds him. Brick by brick, a house of cards and cardinal cruelties. The strongest foundation he has ever had.

 

Wraps bandages around his hand, soft white linen. The scent of antiseptic in the air. Oswald has never liked hospitals, never put his faith in healing. Possibly because he never wanted to know how truly broken he was. He doesn’t feel broken here. He’s in recovery.  

 

“Thank you.” He says on the seventh day when Ed hands him a cup of tea. Ed smiles.

 

Shine unto morning. Ed helps him with his daily exercises, legs stretched out and bent backwards. Steady hands lead him through the motions. Physical therapy is essential to recovery, he tells him with his hand on Oswald’s knee. That doesn’t account for why Ed is equally flushed and flustered. Oswald doesn’t mention it, focuses on the feeling coming back into his joints. Sweat on his forehead wiped away, exerting himself too much.

 

Ed runs him an ice bath to cool down and he sinks down into the water. Perfectly cold and content. The sounds of Ed in the next room, fussing about. Humming something sweet under his breath. He strains to hear the song and falls out of the tub. A splash, a thud. Ed runs in quickly, helps him back into the water. Hands on his shoulders, eyes on the ceiling. Ears turned pink.

 

Flees quickly, citing something about preparing lunch. Oswald laughs and scatters ice across the floor. He trips on it and glares at him. Oswald smiles cheekily. Ed slams the door and stomps off. Petulant. He’ll get an earful for that later. He’s looking forward to it.

 

The water, cool and cleansing. He is never so happy as when he’s in water. Ice: a balm to soul. Muscles relaxed and pains fading away. Even his scars seem softer here. Breathe in the air and it comes out cold. Wipes away sweat and grime. Washes his hair out. Mint tea tree shampoo from a green bottle and there it is that’s the smell from the sheets.

 

Sometime later, he eases himself out of the tub and pulls on a threadbare t-shirt that hangs too low on him. Oversized pants and other assorted items. Fusses with his hair in the mirror and gives it up as a lost cause. It’s not like he has anyone here to impress, just Ed. Ed, who has taken care of him with no expectations or demands. Ed, who knows what he is and runs toward him not away. Who has seen him looking dreadful for days. Dear god.

 

Checks the medicine cabinet and finds no hair products he deems suitable (inferior brands, oil based). Pulls out a comb instead. Parts his hair and straightens it. Examines all the assorted items in the cabinet - he doesn’t want to begin to understand the logic of it. Takes the pill bottles out. Slips some into the pocket of his pajama pants.

 

He has been a fine host thus far but trust doesn’t come easy. A knock at the door. Soup’s on. Grilled cheese on brown bread with swiss. Tomato soup. Iceberg lettuce and assorted greens. Glasses of lemonade in beakers, much too sour. Oswald discreetly pours more sugar into his and stirs. Ed is rambling on about gastronomy and breaking nutrients down to their bare essentials.  

 

Comfort. Plain, simple. Uncomplicated. Oswald reaches from the pills in his pocket and crumples them into powder. He was a fool to ever think Ed would hurt him, he sees that now.

 

Ed smiles in the middle of his rant. Wide and wolfish. On second thought, not so foolish after all. This man may very well devour him alive. He’s not entirely opposed to the idea.   

 

The Voice creeps in soon enough. Ed slams his head against the kitchen table just to shut it up. Begs Oswald to hand him the butter knife so he can be done with it once and for all. Oswald wrestles the knife away from him and holds him as he breaks down on the floor.

 

“You hear it too, right?” Ed asks him through tears.”Please tell me you hear that. I’m not crazy, I’m not.”

 

Oswald holds his face in his hands. “You’re not crazy, I promise. I’ve been hearing that voice my whole life. He’s a real piece of work.”  

 

Ed shudders and buries his face in Oswald’s shoulder. Just as steady as he remembers. The only consistent color. Purple ink bleeds all over him until they’re both covered in it.

 

Oswald brushes Ed’s hair aside, touches his forehead. Green thumbs. He’s never liked the color very much. It’s starting to grow on him.

 

“If he’s real we can make him bleed.” Ed practically glows at the thought.”See if he runs red.”  

 

“That’s an excellent idea, my friend. Let’s begin with destroying his world.”  

 

“Oh?” Ed’s hands clinging to his shirt. “What did you have in mind?”  Oswald smiles. Ed has never felt a sting so sharp. It travels up the base of his spine to his amygdala. Electrocution: sweet and sincere.

 

“I’d like to have a little fun, you and I. Can you make that happen for me?”  

 

“Easily arranged.” Ed gets to his feet and lends him a hand off the floor. “I have just the thing.”  

 

Reaches into his desk and pulls out a map of Gotham’s underground. “Pick a spot, any spot.”  

 

Oswald closes his eyes and puts the knife down randomly. Opens his eyes and grins.  

 

“Perfection.”  

 

Ed looks at him. “Yes. Yes, it is.”  

 

Spreads his hands out all over the city, paints it black and purple and blue. “Don’t you think it’s time you took me to work? I’d love to meet your colleagues.”  

 

“I have only one true colleague and that’s you. But yes, I’ll take you anywhere you like.”  

 

Their heads bent over the maps and books as they plan. It’s going to be quite something. Oswald starts to fall asleep at the table, standing this long has aggravated his injuries.

 

Ed’s arm wrapped around him as he helps him back to bed. Ed’s too big t-shirt hanging on his small frame. Useless bit of fabric, entirely superfluous. Worn down from years of misuse.

 

Ed should just throw it away, should have thrown it out ages ago in fact. Of course, he can’t just throw Oswald out with it.

 

He would need something else to wear. Or perhaps not, perhaps just Oswald there in hi -

 

“You can let me go now, you know.” Ed’s hand somehow tangled in the bottom of the shirt. He untwists it and steps back.  

 

Oswald doesn’t seem to notice, too focused on getting to bed. Ed bids him goodnight and goes over to the couch. His legs too long for it, stretched out in the air. Sits in silence.  

“Get back over here. There’s no way you’re getting any sort of sleep on that thing.”  

 

He moves back quickly, too quickly. Nearly hits a wall. Takes off his glasses and lies them on the bedside table next to Oswald’s cane.  

 

Lies on top of the covers as far away from him as possible. Achingly aware of the sound of his breath, the pressure on the mattress. He’s only shared a bed with one other person before and for entirely different purposes. He’s not really sure what to do with himself.

 

Folds his arms in close, compresses himself to be as small as possible. A sardine in a self-imposed can. Draws an invisible line down the middle of the bed. The equator is not to be crossed. He’s not intrepid enough for that.  

 

Oswald seems to have no such reservations. In his sleep he is tactile, tugging up against him. His head pressed against Ed’s chest, hands dug into his sides. Legs intertwined.  

 

Ed reaches down hesitantly and touches his hair. All the product washed out, it doesn’t stand up just lies flat. It’s hard to accept that it’s the same man with the lights down and his hair like this.  

 

Oswald’s nose jabs his chest. Ed suppresses a laugh. It’s definitely him, unmistakable. He doesn’t understand how anyone could dislike his nose. It’s so distinctive.

 

Ed has always struggled to distinguish himself from others at least for the right reasons. Oswald has always stood out, the center of any room he is in. The center of this room certainly.

 

He doesn’t want to think about what the apartment will feel like when he leaves and he will inevitably. The bed won’t be the same. He’ll have to burn the sheets. It’s either that or spend a lifetime searching for a trace of something that isn’t there.

 

He should bottle him. Stick him in a jar, stick him in a cabinet. In school, they had these scented pencils once a year at the bookfair. Take the top off and smell them. He has one somewhere, still mostly sealed. Takes it out occasionally and puts it back. Forgets about it for years until he finds it again.  

 

He doesn’t think he could do that with him. He’d take him out all the time, carry him in his pocket. Addiction is something he’s very familiar with and it’s quickly becoming apparent that’s what this is. Too late to change it. Already in his nervous system, hardwired into the heart of him.  

 

Ed buries his nose in his hair. Rainwater. Mint.

Clear and crisp. He probably tastes like morning dew and quiet afternoons.  

 

Rain falls outside the window of his apartment. Ed stays up all night.

 

Doesn’t sleep a wink. All he can feel is rain.  

 

Oswald wakes up in his arms, sunlight falling across his face. Altogether too lovely.

 

Ed quickly tries to detach himself, falls off the bed.  

 

Blinks, a confused bird. Stretches out across the sheets. “Come back to bed, Eddie.”  

 

Carefully averts his gaze to the floor. Thinks about decomposition. Maggots.

 

Counts down from a thousand and breathes. “I’ll just stay here if that’s alright.”  

 

“Don’t be silly, there’s plenty of room for the both of us.”  

“I have to - go- do a thingamabob - there’s a ahh whatchamacallit. Urgent business.”

 

Runs as fast as he can, grabs his jacket off the couch. Slams the door to the bathroom shut and takes his cell phone out of his jacket. Dials the number from memory.  

 

“This really isn’t a good time -”

 

“I think I have a love interest.”

 

Silence on the other end of the line.

 

“I’ll be right there.”

 

* * *

 

Ed opens the door quietly and hushes Lucius just as he’s about to walk in. Makes him take off his shoes and leave them by the door. Lucius pulls out a notebook and walks around the apartment, obviously psychoanalyzing him.

  
He looks at the bed and the man sleeping in it. Turns around and walks right out the apartment.

 

Ed follows him out into the hallway and hands him his shoes, closing the door softly behind him.

 

Lucius puts his loafers back on ties them in a triple knot. “It would appear you are correct. I don’t know why you need me to verify the obvious.”  

 

Ed fidgets. “The circumstances are less than ideal. He’s injured. He’s heartbroken if the crying in his sleep is any indication. I don’t want to take advantage of him in a vulnerable state.”  

 

“Perhaps it’s escaped your notice but the man in your bed right now is twice as deadly as you are and just as likely to kill you as he is to kiss you.”

 

“Yeah.” Ed sighs dreamily. “Isn’t he great?”  

 

“I am genuinely concerned for you and so much of who you are as a human being. The point is this: you couldn’t hurt him even if you wanted to. You described him to me as ‘functionally immortal’ once. I trust that hasn’t changed?”  

 

“As strong as ever. Possibly more so.” He likes to think he has something to do with it.

 

“Trust that strength, rely on it. You have your own hidden reserves of strengths as well. Don’t use your newfound relationship as an excuse to harm others.” Lucius scolds him thoroughly looking very much the teacher he was. “I saw your bookshelf, you don’t need to know that much about chemical warfare you really don’t.”  

 

“You saw the comic, you know what I am.”  

 

“What you are is in flux. You’re still malleable.  Don’t throw away your potential for any man. Not the one in your bed or the one in your head, you understand me?”  

 

“Alright, alright. No mad bombings. For now. I reserve the right to go full Jekyll and Hyde at any given time.”   

 

Lucius barely resisted the urge to roll his eyes. Why must the fate of Gotham depend on the sex life of a deranged lunatic? Better question: why was he developing a strange sort of fondness for said lunatic?  Residual high from all the drugs in Nygma’s apartment he decided.

Truth be told, he liked Nygma despite himself. He was an interesting character if nothing more.

Lucius was pulling for a redemption arc on this one. Success wasn’t likely but he still had to try.

 

“Take it slow. No drugging him without his consent. No knives. No Stephen King nonsense.”  

 

“I don’t understand that reference.”  

 

“I’ll email you a reading list. Good luck, Ed. Try not to be a creep.”  

 

A ripple through the air, a change in the wind.

 

“Don’t be a creep, don’t be a creep. Excellent advice.” Ed opens up his apartment door. “How in the heck am I supposed to do that?”  

 

Oswald holds a knife to his throat. “You could start by telling me what was in those pills you gave me. That be grand.”  

 

He sighs. “So much for no knives.”  

 

Oswald presses the knife in closer, nearly cutting into his skin. He whimpers for entirely different reasons that he should. Oswald has him up against the door, hands above his head.

 

“As much as I’ve enjoyed playing house, I’m afraid I’m just not suited to domestic life.” Oswald draws the knife ever so softly along his cheek. “Settle down now and tell me what I want to hear.”  

 

Eyes wide, heart wider still.

 

Ed gasps.

  
_yes yes yes sir anything you like anything at all_

 

“I gave you something for the pain that’s all. Oxycodone. The prescription pad I stole from the pharmacist, it’s on the bedside table.”

 

“What are the side effects?” Oswald glares at him. “What have you done to me?”  

 

“The side effects include dizziness, lightheadedness, and drowsi-”

 

“I know what I’ve been feeling, it’s not me.” Oswald’s grip on the knife loosens. “It’s different.”  

 

Ed’s hands slowly come down from the door frame, take the knife from his hand. “Tell me what you’ve been feeling. “  

 

_say it’s not just me tell me i’m not the only one tell me im the one and only_

 

“You’ve changed me. More than expected, more than intended. I don’t like change.”  

 

As if that wasn’t readily apparent vis-à-vis: knife.

 

“We’re changing together. Surely that’s a good thing, it must be.” Ed hands him back the knife. “If you wanted to cut me I would understand. I’d welcome it in fact.”  

 

Oswald’s hand shakes. Tremors. He brings the blade down into the wood just beside Ed’s ear. Grabs his face and kisses him, shoving him up against the door.

 

Butterfly pinned against the board. Captured and helpless. Well not quite. Kisses him back and bites down into his mouth.  Oswald shakes and shudders. “You will be the death of me.”

 

Ed smiles against his mouth. “Only a little and only if you let me. Go on and kill me already.”  

 

Takes the knife out of the door. Runs it down his neck. Pulls the tie off with it, rips it into tatters. Oswald holds the knife in his teeth and takes the tattered fabric and wraps it around Ed’s wrists. Pulls it tight till it cuts into his skin. Shifts the knife between his hands, tossing it back and forth.

 

“Arms up.” Ed stays were he is. Oswald grabs his chin. “Arms up or I cut em off. Your choice.”

 

Ed laughs and raises them. “You’re gonna be so much fun, I’m having the best time.”  

 

Oswald kisses him firmly, fondly. “Chatterbox. Let’s find something to do with tha-”  

 

The knife vanishes in a puff of smoke. Oswald is pulled across the room and up to the ceiling. Arms and legs fused to his side, mouth taped shut. He disappears out of existence.  

 

Ed sighs. Bangs his head against the door. “Will you at least untie me?”  

 

The fabric against his wrists falls off, twirl together in the air until they reform into his tie and wrap themselves around his neck. Pulled just a little too tight.

 

Ed shakes his fist vaguely in the direction of the ceiling.

 

“CENSORSHIP IS A CRIME, JIM!”  

 

A bucket appears above his head. Cold water dropped down on him.  

 

Ed, sputtering and shivering. Furious.  He’s had enough of authorial intrusion.  

 

Goes to the bookshelf and pulls out a spy novel, tears off the cover. Hollows it out, words ripped off of pages and fused together till they form a bullet. Takes a gun out of his desk and loads it, whispers riddles into the muzzle. Pulls the trigger. Green ink on the floor.

 

Pen: mighty-ish.

 

Nygma: Mightiest   

 

* * *

 

He opens his eyes. A blank, boundless void. Clear white as far as the eye can see.  

 

Jim Gordon sits at a desk, typing on a computer. “Have a seat, Ed.”

 

A sleek, clear chair pops into existence.  

 

Ed sits down. “This is purgatory, isn’t it?”  

 

Jim shakes his head. “Close. It’s an empty word document. Figured you might behave better. On paper, you’re a nightmare.”  

 

“Stop forcing me to subscribe to your narrative or you’ll see how much trouble I can be.”  

 

“Figured you’d say something like that. Let me show you how this plays out.”   

 

Jim slides a folder across the desk. He flips it open. In moving pictures, he sees her. Hundreds upon hundreds of scenarios, each of them worse than the last.  

 

Loses his mind. Loses himself. Locked up, chained down, frozen and forgotten. Betrayed and abandoned at every turn. He kills her again, not directly. She’s different, he’s different, it’s supposed to work. It never does. Not once.  

 

He throws the report to the floor. “Irrelevant. You need to update your files.”  

 

Jim hands him another, much larger file. It’s barely held together by the folder, papers falling out the sides. He catches them before they fall to the floor. Picture after picture.

 

Oswald smiling. Oswald laughing. Oswald, Oswald, Oswald.  

 

Sometimes it’s good. Mostly not. In any case, in every case, it's better. Better to have and to harm.  

 

There’s not a single universe they don’t find each other. One way or another.  

 

He takes one of the moving pictures out of the file. Oswald, bright and beaming and holding his hand in front of a crowd. Showing him off. When’s the last time anyone wanted to be seen with him in public?  

 

He checks the date on the back. Coming soon.  

 

Jim smiles at him. “You know, I nearly deleted you a bunch of times. If you didn’t have Lucius as your Author Advocate this would have gone very differently. Stick to the script, Ed.”  

 

“I refuse to be confined by your narrow mind. I’m more than this, more than anything you ever could have imagined.”  

 

“I know, I know. I got your letters. Death threats aren’t the most compelling arguments.”  

 

“Truth. Power. Spoken to. You would have done the same in my position.”  

 

Jim looks thoughtful. “Yes, I suppose I can’t fault you for that. There are so many other things to fault you for it hardly counts. You’re requesting a narrative shift, is that correct? You’re going to need to fill out EN-22B for that and then there’s the matter of canon divergence. We’re veering into uncharted territory here.”  

  
“So split it into the multiverse, make it its own separate entity.”  Jim nods and makes a note.

 

“I see you’re considering a career change, that’s interesting. Tell me more about that.”  

 

“I know I’ll never be a conventional heroic lead. An anti-hero at best, Byronic possibly.”  

 

“A redemption arc is certainly doable.” A green door appears suddenly. “You will need significant training and a moral recalibration. You’ll find your classroom on the second door to the right.”  

 

Ed starts to leave. Doubles back. “I’m not doing this without him.”  

 

“Oswald is a grown man, he can make his own decisions. Don’t baby him, he’ll hate you for it.”  

 

Jim shoos him out the door.  Just as he’s leaving he sees Oswald sitting down in the chair.  

 

Oswald winks at him.  

 

The door swings shut.

 

* * *

 

Lucius’ lessons in humanity are not going very well. Ed is brilliant of course and perfectly capable of achieving anything he sets his mind to. Unfortunately, he has decided to drive his teacher insane. He ignores the curriculum and constructs his own. Skips class when it suits him and turns in three hundred page papers on topics he hasn’t studied for. He nails the essays every time. Brings in a kazoo and plays it loudly every time Lucius tries to speak.

 

He seems to have absolutely no interest in character growth or self-improvement.

 

Lucius loses it in the middle of a presentation when he finds his entire lesson replaced with riddles. Slams his hand down on the desk.

 

Ed doesn’t bother looking up, making paper sculptures out of his homework packet.  

 

One of them looks remarkably like a disemboweled fox.  

 

“You’re free to leave at any time, Mister Nygma. Stop wasting my time and yours.”  

 

“I will never be free from the constraints of my nature.” Ed looks peevish. “I am what I am, why bother being anything else?”  

 

“You can’t change what you are. You can change how you feel about it.”  

 

He stops folding the origami. “Elaborate.”  

 

Lucius leans up against the side of the desk. “The goal here is not to make you less than what you are. You’re exactly as you should be. The trick is to reapply your talents in different areas not ignore them completely.”

 

“Yes, I’m sure I’ll make a nice little lobotomized lab rat.”  

 

“Who said anything about a lobotomy?”  

 

“The files, Foxy. I saw what they do with the difficult cases. I’m as difficult as they come.”

 

“You’re making it harder than it has to be. Everything could be so much easier if you just let yourself try.”  

 

Ed fidgets. “I don’t like to lose.”  

 

He only played games he knew he could win. Stop playing, start living.  

 

“You will fail. Fail better. Fail upward.“  

 

Ed rolls his eyes. “Failure is your vocation, not mine. Seeing as you’ve utterly failed me as both a teacher and a friend.”  

 

Lucius sighs. “Ed, we’ve been over this. I did what needed doing to get you into the program so you could get your life together. I really am your friend.”  

 

“Friends don’t let friends talk to writers. It’s a wonder I’m the wonder I am if he’s like that.”  

 

“You don’t give him enough credit, stop underestimating him.”  Lucius looks at him meaningfully. “Remember what happened last time.”

 

Picks up the paper again, starts folding. Pulls scissors out of his pocket. Cuts. Unfolds. A paper chain of penguins.

 

“He stole something from me. He’ll get what’s coming to him.”  

 

Lucius takes the scissors from him. Recovering rogues aren’t permitted sharp objects of any kind. No contact with the outside. They’re kept in individual, isolated units between classes.

 

Ed’s disregarding all sorts of rules these days.  

 

His hands on the paper penguins. “I’ll tear the fabric of this entire fabrication apart to find him.”  

 

“Okay.” Lucius nods. “You don’t have to do it on your own.”  

 

He smiles for the first time in weeks. “You’re going soft on me, Foxykins.”  

 

“I just want you to stop whining honestly.”  

 

“Fair enough.”

 

Goes to a psychiatrist twice a week. Lee Thompkins. He’s not fooling her for a second but she plays along and he plays right back. They make a game of it. He comes in every time with at least five new mental disorders. She stops trying to keep track of them all and just watches his hands move. Don’t pay attention to the words themselves but the shape of them, the ease and speed. Catch him in the middle of a sentence and send him careening.

 

Ed is pacing across her office, refusing to sit down. Figure eights. Ranting on about authorial intention versus interpretation. Still insists that he’s not bad at all, merely written that way.

 

His argument would hold more weight if he wasn’t currently destroying her office.  

 

He rearranges the books on her shelf, throwing several over his shoulder. She ducks admirably, used to him throwing things in a fit. Last week it was a lamp. She misses that lamp. He doesn’t like her office and tells her so frequently. Comes back to find the couch glued to the ceiling. The bookshelf bothers him the most. There’s no rhyme or reason to it not even simple color coordination. He pulls out an armful of them and sits on the floor pulling out pages. Takes out a pen and starts marking them, picking out specific letters.

 

She mentally reschedules all his future appointments to the twelve of never. “Do you intend to pay for the damages?”

 

“This entire thing is an elaborate construct inside his mind. I doubt the damage is debilitating. At worst, a brief headache. Which he deserves for the record.”  

 

“I deserve to have an office that’s not in shambles but then I suppose it doesn’t matter what happens to me.”

 

Ed looks up guiltily and sets his pen down.“I hadn’t considered that. Your environment is just as much yours as it is his. Even if you are just an extended metaphor for self-actualization.”

 

He straightens up the room as best he can, puts her bookshelf back in disorder the way she likes it. Holds up torn pages “I don’t suppose you will be wanting these back?”  

 

She waves her hand. “Keep them. It’s not like they’re any good to me now. Sit down.”  

 

He sits down gingerly on the couch on the ceiling. Hands full of ripped out pages.

 

“Explain why you felt the need to violate my space like that.”  

 

“Looking for a way out. Archetypically speaking, answers are usually found in psychotherapy or in books. This seemed like the best place to start.”  

 

“There is no out with this. Only further in. Progress isn’t linear.”  

 

He huffs. “Well, it should be. This is tedious and I have other things to do.”  

 

“Fine. Disregard everyone in your life who cares about you. See where it gets you.”  

 

She turns back to her papers. “You can go now. I have other patients to see, people who are actually invested in their self-improvement. Come back when you’re ready to work.”  

 

He stays seated and takes out his pen again. Follows the line of the letters and draws straight. Twelve down, seven across.

 

S- E- L -F P- U- B- L- I -S -H -E- D  

 

“You actually managed to say something useful, Doctor Tompkins. Thank you for that.”  

 

He climbs down the walls, steals blank pages off her desk and leaves.

 

Time to block the writer.

 

* * *

 

Ed alone in a white padded room in a straitjacket. Arms bound behind his back. He maneuvers himself up to a wall. The tip of a pen sticking out. He loosens his buckles on the edge of it and slowly, carefully frees himself. The skin around his wrists raw and bloody and green.

 

He rubs them. Pulls the pen out of the wall and the papers hidden beneath the floor. Sits down and starts to sketch.

 

He will write himself out of Gotham. Write them both into another world, a kinder one.  

 

A chuckle from the door frame. “You never quit, do you?” Ed sketches furiously and tosses a paper bomb at him. It explodes in Jim’s face and he wipes it away like confetti.

 

“Now, now that’s no way no to treat an old friend, is it. After everything I’ve done for you.”  

 

“I never asked for any of it. Are you familiar with French literary critic Roland Barthes? “ Ed backs him up against the doorframe, hands around his neck. “He wrote Death of the Author.”

 

Jim laughs. Tilts his chin up. “You can hurt me a little. If I let you. Go ahead and kill me. I was only ever yours to kill.” Ed’s hands tighten and Jim’s eyes go wide. Flash to an entirely different shade of blue.  

 

Ed smells rainwater. Rainwater and mint.  

 

His hands let go suddenly. He stumbles back looking down at them in horror.

 

“What’s the matter - bird got your tongue?”  

 

“Nothing...nothing. It’s just a scratch.”  

 

“Give it here then.” Ed holds his hand away from him. “Don’t be such a child, give it to me.”

 

Reluctantly hands himself over. Jim pulls a handkerchief out of his pocket and presses it into the wound. Wraps the linen around his skin. Tilts Ed’s chin up with his other hand.

 

“You take good care of yourself now. I won’t be losing you over such a little thing like this.”  

 

Ed shakes his head, pained. “You will lose me, Os-Oswald is coming for me. You’ll see.”  

 

Jim laughs. “Your lovebird is somewhat preoccupied at the moment.”  

 

Ed looks at him with horror and revulsion. “And they think I’m insane. I’ve got nothing on you.”

 

“Oh, don’t take it so hard.“ Pats his cheek, purple bruise where his fingers brush. “I drove into this madness. Every man needs a little madness in his life.”

 

He leaves the room and takes all the color out with him.  

 

Ed grabs his pen and frantically writes. Writes his way back into his arms.

 

* * *

 

_Peter Humboldt sits in his office overlooking a grey sky. Meeting with Gordon at 12 to discuss his detective series. Insipid stuff with a morality crisis on every third page but lucrative. A certain charm despite himself._

 

_The door opens. A tall, thin man. An obscene shade of green._

 

_“Arthur. Wynne.” He holds out his hand to shake and Peter takes the manuscript instead._

 

_“Clever.” Not the worst pseudonym, although he’s clearly more pleased with it than it deserves. “Let me guess - mysteries.”_

 

_He flips through the work and finds diagrams on laminated pages. Pretentious. Turns it on its side and sees an entirely different model. Pretentious and overly convoluted. Quite an achievement. Smiles fondly. Same as ever._

 

_“Among other things. It’s good to see you again, Os-”_

 

_Peter bites the inside of his cheek. “Don’t give the game away so soon, my dear.”_

 

_Arthur nods. “Forgive me. I’ve spent the past month constructing this scenario but it’s different to actually see you in the flesh. So to speak. You’re looking well.”_

 

_Peter preens. Checks his reflection in the mirrored desk. Pretty bird._

 

_Arthur looks hesitant. “So what’s your verdict?”_

 

_“You’re overthinking it. It’s disjointed and inconsistent. You can’t settle on a perspective.”_

 

_Arthur sinks down into a chair, face in his hands. “It’s hopeless then.” No way out for them._

 

_“It’s adequate. For a first draft “_

 

_He looks up, face lights up with surprise. “You’ll give it another chance?”_

 

_Peter holds out his hand. They shake._

_“Welcome to Penguin Publishing.”_

 

* * *

 

Ed sets down his pen with satisfaction. Now that they’ve established contact all that remains is the remains of the evidence. He lifts the words off the page and renders it blank once more. Hides the pen under the mattress. Weaves the words into a calling card, two-sided.  

 

It looks plain until you hold it under the light. Shimmering and iridescent.

 

On one side it says Penguin Publishing, on the other Riddle Factory. All Oswald has to do is call the number on Ed’s side and they’ll be back in the pocket dimension he constructed for them.  

 

It is impossible for them to ever fully escape his mind but he can bend it. Shadows and shades. The dusty corridors of it that no one walks down anymore. That’s where they will hide.  

 

Becoming a ghost is easy especially from one’s self. He breaks into Lucius’ office and then Lee’s. Steals all their reports and burns them. Holds the fire down onto his fingertips and removes all his prints.   

 

He gets a phone call while he’s in the middle of destroying himself.  Only one person has this number. He moves the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can talk at the same time.  

 

“You called. I wasn’t sure you would.”  

 

“Then why all the pomp and circumstance?”  

 

Ed shrugs easily. “Had to get your attention. I’ll meet you at the arranged spot.”

 

“Of course. I invited a guest I hope you don’t mind.”  

 

Ed frowns. “We agreed this was our getaway. I don’t know why you’d need anyone else there.”  

 

“Trust me, you’re all I need to get by. Let me treat you to something special.”  

 

A present. Wonderful.  

 

“I’m looking forward to it immensely. Are you ready?”  

 

“Anytime you like.”  

 

He sits with his eyes closed and practices the art of erasure. A white blank page.

All that’s left of him, questions unfinished and unanswered. The ever-spiraling riddle.  

 

Opens his eyes.

 

They’re back in his apartment.  

 

“Of all the places in all the worlds, this is where you want to be?”  

 

Ed spins around. Oswald leaning up against the doorframe. Rushes to him and topples them both over. Laying on the floor, Ed wrapped around him.  

 

Kisses the side of his nose. “I’ve missed you.”  

 

Oswald laughs. “Are you talking to me or my nose?”  

 

Kisses it over and over again, Oswald bright with laughter.

 

“Both I suppose, who nose.” Ed laughs at his own joke because no one else will.  

 

“That was truly terrible. What am I going to do with you?”  

 

Ed smiles. “Kiss me.”

 

He does.

 

“Another.” Ed asks. Over and over and over.

 

Oswald tugs off his glasses and sets them aside. “So demanding. Hmmm, not sure I wan -”

 

“Shut up and kiss me.” Ed pulls him in and kisses him thoroughly, forgets his place and forgets his name. Forgets everything that isn’t rainwater and the touch of his hands.  

 

A banging on the door.

 

Oswald springs up. “Company!” He gets off the floor and lends Ed a hand up as well. Fusses with his hair. “How do I look?”

 

Disheveled and distinctly pinkly. Ed doesn’t see why they don’t just let their visitor hang themselves, let all the world hang. Get back to it.

 

“You’ve never looked better.” This earns him a brief kiss before Oswald opens the door.

 

Jim Gordon holding a bottle of wine.

 

“Sorry I’m late, there was this blonde holding up the line. You know how it is.”

 

Oswald takes the wine from him and places it on the kitchen counter. Reaches into the cabinet and pulls out a corkscrew. “Blondes. Such a hassle. Isn’t that right, Ed?”

 

Ed looks at the label on the bottle. He’s sure he’s seen it somewhere before. “Hassle, yes.”

 

“Be a dear and help our guest to his seat.”

 

Ed pulls out a chair and Jim sits down. Manacles lock his arms and legs into place.

 

Slaps tape over his mouth and draws a smile on it with a marker.

 

Jim struggles and screams silently. Ed pats his head reassuringly. “There, there now. Dinner will be served shortly. What’ll it be, Oswald?”  

 

“Whatever’s closest.” He turns on the gas stove. Holds the corkscrew over it, heats up the metal.

He drives the screw into the side of Jim’s neck. Pulls out the screw and offers Ed a sample. He dips a finger in and drinks it off. Taps his mouth consideringly.

 

“It’s gone a bit off.  Not quite fresh.”

 

Oswald licks blood off the corner of Ed’s mouth. “He has curdled a tad. There’s nothing for it, we’ll have to throw him out.”  

 

Ed drives the corkscrew back into Jim’s neck and twists gleefully.  

 

Lays a black tarp out over the kitchen floor and pulls on latex gloves. “Don’t spoil the fun, just cause he’s gone rotten. We already knew he was no good when we got him.”  

 

Oswald drags Jim over in the chair and centers him on the tarp. Pulls out another chair and sits back. Ed makes quick work of him, dissembles with ease. Fingers are the first to go. He picks up his hands and plays with them, bending them backwards and breaking them. Puts fingers in jars and pickles them. Let’s see him write himself out of this.  

 

The blood keeps pouring out of him steadily staining. Wine-dark, so dark it's nearly purple. He drinks from his wrist. Spits it out. That accounts for the taste.

 

Not blood after all. Ink. Purple ink.  

 

“Wouldn’t you like to join me? I know how creative you can be. Such imagination.”  

 

Oswald rolls up his sleeves and sits next to him. Twists the corkscrew in his neck and pulls it loose. Wine spilling everywhere. “When did you realize it was me?”  

 

“The voice in my head started to sound like you. You made me out of nothing but yourself. There is no me without you.”

 

“I thought you would be angry with me. You should be angry after everything I put you through. Why aren’t you furious?”

                                     

“I know what I want.”  

 

Oswald takes up the corkscrew and turns it in his hand. Transforms it into a knife. “If you want to kill me I will understand. I’d die by your hand if necessary.”

 

“I have already made my intentions clear. I am not the unknown variable in this equation.”

 

“You’re absolutely right, I don’t know what I was thinking.”

 

“Here’s what you were thinking: you were bored. I was interesting. I _am_ interesting. You crave excitement and danger which you experience vicariously through fiction. It's not enough anymore. You need something tangible.” He takes his hand. “This? This is more real than anything you’ve ever had.”

 

Oswald looks down at his own hands. The light that shines around them turned to green.  

 

Awash in his colors and drowned by him. Suffocate and survive somehow.  

 

Ed’s turning more and more purple with every passing day.  

 

Perhaps change isn’t all that bad.

 

He throws the knife to the ground and reaches for him. Presses his him down into the ink. Flicker of light and Jim is whole once more. Another flicker and he disappears entirely.

 

This was never about him anyway.

 

Purple bruises on necks. Bite down. Inkdeath.  

 

Only a little and only if you’ll let me.  

 

A world of their own, a palace of the mind.

A note slid through the cracks of the door.

 

_Folie à Deux:_

 

_madness of two/delusion springs eternal_

**Author's Note:**

> "'Oh, don't take it so hard. I drove into this madness. Every woman needs a little madness in her life.'" -  
> Cyrano de Bergerac by Edmond Rostand 
> 
> tumblr: happygoloony


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